


Almost encounters.

by weirdlyabnormal



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:43:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4994206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weirdlyabnormal/pseuds/weirdlyabnormal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boy with taffy shoes and the boy with blue hair.<br/>Their paths almost meet, in the boy with blue hairs lowest moment.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost encounters.

The wind was fighting the strands of his hair. It was attacking and pulling, but for some reason he didn’t mind. The mud was squelching under his taffy-pink Doc martins- which was pretty much the only interesting thing about him; aside from the shoes his clothing was all following the greyscale- and he could feel the spluttering begins of rain. He didn’t know he was being watched. Behind the boy a large pond spread out territorially, its waters dark and murky. The water was a void swallowing sunlight. Ripples were onset by the tiny movements of creatures never to be seen by humans, and this gave onlookers an odd sense of peace. At least, it gave one onlooker an odd sense of peace.  
Just along the concrete side of the pond, there were crusts of white bread, forgotten mittens and dirty toys. Alongside the lost items was a teenage boy. He was sitting on a wooden bench staring at the water. His hair was dyed a cerulean blue, the colour the water should ideally be, he thought. The bench he was sitting on was painted a dark brown, but the paint had obviously been very cheap, as patches of a mossy green gloss were starting to show in patches. There was a plaque nailed on the middle of the bench, talking about the pain and loss of a friend or a brother or a son. The boy found it hard to summon sympathy. Lumps of chewing gum and grains of birdseed were splattered on the other side of the bench: the side he was sitting on seemed to have very little of the common bench character tropes.  
The fog was getting thicker and suffocating the sun, and soon the boy with blue hair was unable to see past the all-consuming lake. A mother swan floated dexterously, followed by a small clutter of cygnets, who lacked her prowess. Despite himself he smiled. And then with a soul-shuddering crash he remembered why he was here; he had nowhere to go. His parents had kicked him out. He was destined to sin they said. He didn’t deserve their love they said. Anger bubbled in his chest and he lashed out at the bench, and after feeling the echoing pain in his wrist he was reminded that this was real, and he would have to try to understand it.  
However, the boy with the taffy shoes was feeling the strange melancholy of the morning in a different kind of way. He had been climbing the grassy and muddy hill, avoiding the dog feces and regretting the choice to not bring an umbrella when he spotted the tree. It wasn’t a particularly attractive tree, with rough, chipped bark like scales on a fish. The tree itself was nothing special, it just happened to have the right number of branches in the right kind of places to make it okay to climb and sit on. This was in itself a small miracle to the boy. This was the tree he had climbed as an infant, gossiped and told. It was the tree where he told his best friend he was gay, at the top with the stained-auburn autumn leaves scraping their faces. It was the tree he had fallen out of and broken his wrist. It was the tree he had carved his name into, and the tree he hoped to carve his initials into with whoever it was he turned out to love. It frustrated him how much this scared and excited him. The possibility of so many futures was infinitely better than the harsh truth of the past, and the mediocre of the present.  
The boy with blue hair was watching a person with pink shoes climb a patchy slope. The figure stopped at an old and deciduous tree and proceeded to climb it. The wind picked up, stinging his eyes. His horizon seemed to be getting nearer and nearer as the fog thickened, and soon all he could decipher of the image of the person was the pink shoes. He wondered why someone would be in the park so early on a Saturday morning, before remembering that he was here. A fleeting thought was that he should talk to person, but that was quickly suffocated. Who would want to talk to him?  
The boy with blue hair turned around.  
Today was not his fate.


End file.
